


Dragon Age Prompts (Collection 3)

by jawsandbones



Series: Dragon Age Prompts [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair x Warden, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Inquisitor x Cassandra, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2020-05-02 08:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 16,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19195393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: A collection of all the things too small to give their own post - generally prompts I receive. Tags will be updated accordingly!Multiple relationships, but the majority is: Fenris x Hawke, Zevran x Warden, Dorian x Inquisitor, etc etc. (Too many to fully tag - all relationships specified in the title so you can find what exactly you want.) A little something for everyone!





	1. Cold, Here (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)

“I have come all this way to be with my lover for the first time in months, and what do I find? She has left the bed quite cold, and poor me, all alone,” he says, the blanket wrapped up over his shoulders, around him. He makes his way to the desk, where the lone candle burns low, flickering as she writes. “What has stolen you away, hmm?” He leans over behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder, as he pulls the blanket over her as well. She writes quickly and cleanly, allocating troops, directing the presence of Wardens in Ferelden.

“More Darkspawn sightings,” she says, low and under her breath, “near the Coast.” It’s in the tone of her voice, the way her quill attacks the parchment – concern. Worry. Zevran settles himself on the armrest of her chair and ensures the blanket covers around her completely. He leans into her, his head resting against hers.

“Perhaps an earthquake has shifted a tunnel which was once blocked? These could be strays,” he says. He knows a few of the names she is sending to scout this incursion. Experienced. She is taking no chances with this one.

“It’s what I’m hoping, but it seems unlikely,” Noya says. “Something is driving them to the surface.” He twists a lock of her hair between his fingers, watches as she signs her name with a flourish. She leans against him, sighs, and closes her eyes. He presses the kiss to the crown of her head. She lets go of the quill, rests her hand on his knee, and his hand settles over hers.

“You are freezing, my love. Come back to bed with me,” he says. He holds her hand in his as he stands, lures her from where she sits. To her feet, back to the bed which welcomes them utterly. Collapsing into each other, wrapped around each other, her face pressed into his chest.

“I could be sending those men to their deaths,” she says.

“It could also be nothing,” he says. “Things have been so quiet. One sighting does not mean that is changing.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Aren’t I always?” The begrudging smile, and she rubs her face against him. She rolls over him, pinning Zevran beneath her. His hands move slowly against the curves of her, while their feet tangle together.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says as she crosses her arms, settles her chin on her hands. Zevran smiles up at her, his hair mussed from the pillow and from sleep. There are dark circles under his eyes, evidence of his long journey here. A little thinner, in need of proper meals, but he is here… and staying. For her. She shifts forward, kisses him properly.

“I am quite glad I’m here as well, _amor_ ,” Zevran tells her.


	2. Laughter (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: “No, sorry, you laughed. I … I never saw it before. It’s — pretty.” For the pairing of your choice!

She’s not even sure what she said. Some throwaway line, a slip of the tongue, falling easy and thoughtlessly from her mouth. She wishes she knew exactly but – does it matter? He has his hand loosely over his mouth as he laughs, shoulders shaking, eyes sparkling, and cheeks unable to restrain the grin, his dimples. It’s true and full laughter, unabashed, not choked down or held back. Fenris is utterly bright, and _happy_. His other hand moves to his belly, as though he’s fit to burst, hunched over and wavering. It consumes his everything and, Maker, Hawke wishes she remembers what she said.

Fenris catches her gaze, and then turns away from her, coughs himself back into something close to a neutral expression. The smile still teases on his lips. “What?” he asks.

“You’re laughing,” she says. “ _Properly_ laughing.”

“Is it strange?” he asks, and his hand moves over his mouth, trying to wear the smile down into submission. Hawke shakes her head, gently puts her hand around his wrist, a suggestive tug to pull his hand away.

“Not at all,” she tells him, “it’s wonderful. You should do it more often. It suits you.” The tips of ears turn a furious red, curling down into his cheeks. Fenris pulls his hand away, lets his fingers touch against hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	3. Fallen (Varric x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I had fallen but you were not there to catch me. ❞ for varric and hawke? pls i love u so much

“Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?”

“Maker, no.”

“But you write it that way,” she says as she peers at him from over the binding of the book, her feet pressing into his thigh as she lies on the couch. Varric looks over at her, up from the notes he’s revising, his glasses at the tip of his nose.

“You realize that some things I write _are_ fictional,” he says. Press, press, press. Left foot, right foot, and the book falls enough to lean against her chest. Her hand splaying at the cover, fingers tapping against the spine. “I don’t have to believe in everything I write.”

“Treason,” she says.

“Against what? Who?” Varric says with a slight chuckle. Press, press, press. She tents the book on the back of the couch as she shifts, crawls over to where he sits. Kneeling beside him, she plucks the glasses from his face, puts them on hers.

“Romantics,” she says. Adjusting them on her face, stray bits of raven hair curling at her temple, and Hawke looks at him. “Me.”

“You believe in all of that?” He asks as he puts aside his notes, the dripping quill, and reaches up to steal back his glasses.

“Of course,” she says as her eyes re-focus, “how else do you explain it?”

“It?”

“Us.”

“Coincidence,” he says, “and a lot of luck.”

“You can’t just believe we were meant to be?” She sighs with a dramatic flair as she twirls and turns to half lay in his lap, her arms around his neck. He only barely manages to get his glasses out of the way, shoved haphazardly with his papers. A few spill from the table, waft to the floor, forgotten where they lie. Varric is far too preoccupied with Hawke’s face so near to his, bright blue eyes attentive and mischievous.

“Birdie.” A twitch of a smile at the edge of her lips, at the sound of his name for her. “If I was going to believe in fate, then I might believe it for you. Isn’t that enough?” Her hand curls against his cheek, her thumb moving over his lips.

“Admit it. You fell for me at the same time I fell for you and the circumstances are far too much for simple coincidence,” she says, a glance between his eyes, his mouth.

“I admit nothing,” he says. After all, he fell for her first. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	4. Mud (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: from the softer world prompts, 14 with a pairing of your choosing / I think I’ve got fireflies where my caution should be. (Instead of slowing down, I just shine brighter.)

It’s almost as though she comes from nowhere. The shield on her arm, gripped tight, the spear held in the other. It’s an extension of her, some inordinate reach, and she keeps its line, that hardened grace as she fights. It’s a dance, in her own heavy way. Sure footsteps which turn in the mud, her body following through which each thrust. She breathes calmly all the way through it, and she is trapped in a frown of concentration. Stray hairs stick to the sweat on her brow, the back of her neck. She is no soft thing, dangerous from a glance. She shields him, pulls him up from where he had fallen.

“My savior,” he says.

“Be more careful,” is all he receives in return. Still Zevran grins, follows after her. Their work is not yet finished. He follows in her wake, the wave, her tide. He had made the right choice, in the Warden being his executioner. She still may be, yet, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to be closer. Be more careful – and he is, where it counts. He is careful in camp, keeping a watchful eye on all the rest who follow her. He is careful in his tent, where he sleeps with a hand wrapped around the hilt of the dagger he keeps under his pillow. He is careful, except when it comes to her.

When it’s over, she lets the shield fall. She rests it against her, and holds the spear easy in her hands. There’s a smear of blood on her cheek, dirt and mud all up the legs of her. She keeps that same frown, as though it’s impossible for it to leave. Zevran smiles at the sight of it. She is always sharp, on the lookout, even as Wynne makes her rounds to heal any cuts and scrapes. “You look terrible,” Wynne tells him. He has no doubt. He can feel the mud sticky to all sides of him.

“Many thanks for the compliment, dearest Wynne,” he says as he sits on the rock, grins toothily up at her. She’s at least amenable to his teasing, a shake of her head and the corners of her lips turning up. He feels her magic wash over him, and he sighs contently at the warmth of it.

“You’re alright?” It’s almost as though she comes from nowhere. Wynne moves onto the next while Noya, Noya is right next to him. It’s usually impossible for others to sneak up on him, but she – “Zevran?” The frown between her brows.

“I am fine, do not fear, my Warden. The mud simply got the best of me, this time,” he tells her, and finally, that frown eases. “I will take your words to heart and be more careful.” A solemn vow, his hand held over his heart. She gives him no proper reply, simply a musing grunt before she reaches out. He struggles to contain the flinch as she rubs a smear of mud from his face with her thumb. He watches her go, collecting her spear and shield, speaking to Sten.

He knows he should be more careful, towards her especially. But he finds him barreling forwards, ever following in her wake, and he doesn’t think he wants to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	5. Warm (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: At my worst, I worry you’ll realize you deserve better. At my best, I worry you won’t. (I’ve never been better.) for that good good fenhawke

It is something, to have her smile in your direction. Something golden, which does not hide, and touches each part of her. It’s a warmth she spreads with ease. Oh, to stand in that sunlight, to have it pointed in your direction. He looked away, at first. Shied from it. Far too bright for his eyes, far too promising for him. Now, it is a promise he returns. A smile of his own, and he fears it does not match hers.

There is a part of him which wishes to keep her smile all to himself. To wrap himself in its embrace, and know that it is all his. But that’s not Hawke, and it doesn’t suit him. He knows the smiles meant for him are different. Some of those smiles are not made with her lips. A touch against the back of his hand, a brush of her fingertips. Brushing hair back behind his ear, wiping away a smudge of dirt from his cheek. The hand on his shoulder, the concern after battle. Her whisper in the dark, the sleep slurred words no one else knows. All her, all warmth.

Fenris wants to say he gives her that same warmth, but he smiles in the mirror and all he sees is cold. Restrained, held back. He frowns at himself, that blurred reflection, and so deep in study of every line of his face, he does not hear her. Startled, at the arms which wrap around his waist, the chin that settles on his shoulder. Her fingers find their place at his chest, play with the seams of his tunic. “What are you doing?” she asks, a bemused curl at her mouth.

“I am,” he thinks for a moment, “practicing.” Her eyebrows rise questioningly and he feels the flush of sudden embarrassment burn at the back of his neck. “My smile feels unkind.” She chuckles, and he knows she means no ill will. She buries her face in his shoulder, squeezes him tightly.

“I think you’re overthinking it,” she says. “A smile is a smile.” Not true. He twists in her embrace, turns to face her.

“It isn’t the same as yours. It isn’t – warm,” he says. She reaches up, her fingers curling at his cheek.

“You need to be kinder to yourself. A fake smile in the mirror is never going to be the real thing. And besides, I find your smile _quite_ warm. It makes me happy to see it,” she says. He feels his lips tug upwards, and she gives a pleased huff. “Just like that. It’s warm Fenris, I promise.” He turns his head, presses the kiss to her palm, and lets his hands rest on her hips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	6. Letters (Dorian x M!Lavellan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: You’ve left a void in me that cannot be filled. ❞ oc's of your choosing

~~Ma Vhen-~~

~~Ama-~~

Dorian,

 

It’s only been a month since you’ve gone and already the others are working me to death. We’ve been tracking down the remaining rifts left in Thedas. Best to make use of this thing on my hand while I have it, right? ~~Speaking of the anchor~~ I bet you’re also incredibly busy. Sometime in the near future, I expect the latest news to declare you the new Archon of Tevinter. ~~Better news would be that you’ve returned.~~

I don’t really know how to write letters. At least, letters like this. I think I’ve been staring at this parchment for too long and it’s still empty. I don’t know what to say, or what to do. I’ve been a bit aimless since you left.

Skyhold is slowly emptying. Corypheus is gone, hurray. Soon it’ll be only me left. ~~Me and this fucking anchor~~. I am reading up on history and magic, with all the books you’ve marked. I enjoy your notes about the texts better than the text, I think.

 ~~I wish you were here~~. I’m so proud of you. Be careful. One day, when all the rifts are closed, I’ll come to you. ~~Skyhold isn’t home anymore. It’s wherever you are~~. I know, I know, an elf, the Inquisitor, in Tevinter, isn’t safe, blah, blah, blah. I want to see you. I love you. I miss you.

 

Mahanon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	7. Simulacrum (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for my giveaway

A rattling rasp, the harder crack of bone. The wheeze of an exhale, the inability of an inhale. The blow strangles not his throat, but his lungs themselves. There’s a measure of cold in it. The rock, yes, but also the lyrium. A contact which sears with frost, ice spreading through his veins. Dorian pushes himself up against the barrier they are trapped within, a hand against his chest. Torn threads drift against the back of his hand. A waste of new robes. Fael will be terribly upset. Another attempt at pulling breath, another attempt which fails.

Sounds slur, mix together. Some cacophony of yelling, the rumble of rock against rock, of spells slamming against the guardian. Swords which find no purchase except in the bright blue veins of lyrium, that glowing blood slashed against the ground. There’s black around the edges. A fog which seeps closer. With all his strength, he focuses on him. He’s still casting spells, standing in front of Dorian protectively. Fael’s head turns, that sway of white hair. He’s saying something, shouting words to him. Dorian wishes he knew what he was saying.

He slumps over, unable to hold himself up any longer. The ground is cool against his forehead. As he closes his eyes, he thinks he might hear his name.

“Dorian!” His name burns in his throat, aches in his mouth. Fael turns his staff, turns the pain to fury, and feels it weave into the spell. The guardian seems to pay no mind to his magic. It heeds Cassandra, as her sword sinks deep into already cracked stone, lyrium spilling all about her. It lashes at Cole, ever so light on his feet, darting out of the way of those strange tentacles. Fael turns, when he feels it, when he sees it, magic which adds to his own.

The spirit still claws. One hand raised out of Dorian’s chest, throwing magic directly from the Fade. Another arm, a palm pressed against the ground, trying to pull itself from him. It looks just like him. The same curl of hair, the shape and feel that he knows all too well – but it’s the face, the eyes, which tell it true. They are empty of everything, and void of what makes Dorian, Dorian. Blank white, expressionless, and the simulacrum spirit hurls spell after spell. Fire bursts from its fingertips, lightning following close behind. They edge close to Fael, enough he can feel their heat, as the spirit lacks any careful nature.

This thing stays half embedded in Dorian. Slumped Dorian, barely breathing Dorian. Unnaturally entwined, a link unable to be broken. Fael forces himself to look at the guardian, and not at it. The guardian swings wildly at the intruders, the interlopers which have found the Titan’s heart. Cassandra is shoved backwards, a blow caught by her shield. Cole flits back, struggling to find a clear path of attack. Cassandra shakes out her shield arm, dives back in, her sword held tightly. Cole slips between tentacles, digs his daggers into the heart of the thing. It’s all Fael can do to keep its attention on _him_ , and not on _them_.

The sweat beads at his forehead, an ache in his arms as he moves his staff with each channeled spell. He feels the fire before he lets it go. He shakes with lingering lightning after it leaves him. He stretches out his hand, the anchor gaping wide on his palm, and pulls directly at the Fade itself. The Rifts are dangerously easy to open. Raw Fade devours the guardian readily, starving for a meal of the real. The harder thing is to control it. Let it not grow too wide, too fat with what it fills its belly with. Worse is closing them. The craving, the want, the yearning reaches into the anchor itself. One day, Fael thinks, it might swallow him whole instead.

Attention he wanted, and attention he receives. The guardian makes no sound, save for what groans between rock and lyrium. Stone sliding against stone, half of its shell taken. Cassandra takes advantage of the exposed heart, and Cole punishes it from the other side. The guardian swings at Fael, and he takes a step back, nimbly out of its way. Beside Dorian, the ghostly image of him. The spirit clings to his body, protects him as best it can. It isn’t the same as weaving spells together. The spirit shows no recognition of him.

It’s a fairly complicated thing to light the lyrium which bleeds from the guardian. Finding the right temperature, the right mixture which lingers somewhere between oil and flame. Fael twists his spells, a notch each and every time, until – it burns blue. It screams upwards, past its defensives, past its tentacles. Cassandra and Cole get out of the way in time as the heart shatters, bursts, sending a fine powder across the area. It flutters, as though snow, but glitters brighter, falls even softer.

Fael instantly turns, the staff clattering against the ground as he goes to his knees beside him. The spirit is retreating, no longer needed. He cradles Dorian’s head in his hands, pulls him into his arms. He leans his head close, holding his own breath as he listens for Dorian. A steady inhale, an almost whistling exhale. He struggles with the sigh of relief, holding it back, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. He pulls the health potion from his belt, tilts Dorian’s head back. He thumbs off the stopper as best he can, raises the mouth of it to his lips.

“You have to drink Dorian,” he pleads with him, knowing full well he cannot hear him, “drink.” It bubbles in mouth, but the swallow is instinctual, muscle memory. Slowly but surely, Fael guides the entirety of the potion into Dorian. He casts aside the empty bottle, and it rolls away, stopping at Cassandra’s feet. Both she and Cole are silent, watching, giving as much space as is needed. Fael’s hand moves to Dorian’s cheek.

A thumb against his cheekbone, a fond circle at the mark beside his eye. His fingers curl, and his other arm holds him tightly against him. White strands of hair fall as gently as that strange powder, against Dorian’s face. Weakly, softly, “you are _crushing_ me.” Fael’s head snaps back, just in time to see Dorian’s eyes slowly open. He puts his own hand against his chest, his magic guiding the healing potion in places it needs to be. The broken rib will need some extra work but – he breathes in fully, just to know his lungs are still there.

He struggles to sit up on his own, but he’s barely moving before Fael is planting his lips solidly against his. He still tastes like the potion. Crushed herbs, a certain bitterness, and the iron of blood around the edges. Dorian, startled, soon lets his hand rest on Fael’s shoulder. The hard kiss, followed by the quicker one, the fluttering of butterfly wings which seem to never cease. “I’m alright, _Amatus_. It will take more than that to kill me,” Dorian says.

“Don’t say things like that,” Fael says, the briefest of pauses in between the kisses.

“Apologies.” A crushing kiss, of his own, wholeheartedly returned. “You can scold me some more later,” he says. “For now, help me up?” Hand in hand, pulling each other to their feet. Standing shoulder against shoulder, and neither of them pulls away their hands. Dorian brushes his thumb over Fael’s knuckles as they smile at each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	8. Creators (Merrill x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Fun things to yell during sex: Anything. (he is risen.) for Sera x Inquisitor or Merrill x Hawke (whichever you are feeling!)

She places a hand on her chest, that hard piece of bone just beneath where her collarbone curls. She presses down just enough to feel the subtle heartbeat, watch as the flush blooms underneath her palm, her fingers. Merrill looks up at her, hands up at her own head, fingers twisting in her hair. Little braids amongst the spilling river, strands so in contrast to the white of the pillow. “What is it Hawke? Do you feel something wrong?” she asks. Hawke smiles, presses a little harder, keeps Merrill pinned against the bed. She straddles her, her other hand moving up to trace the _vallaslin_ at her cheek.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she says, “I like how flustered this makes you.” Color fills in the lines, pink which turns to darker reds; the blush that bleeds past the guide of her _vallaslin_.

“Creators, _vhenan_ , everything you do makes me flustered.” Hawke chuckles under her breath.

“I know.” Her hand slips from Merrill’s chest, moves downward with the rest of her. The bed creaks under Hawke’s shifting weight, her knees pressing into the mattress. There’s a trio of birthmarks just beneath Merrill’s breasts, darker against olive skin, a perfection of sprinkles. She makes sure to plant a kiss for each one. She kneels between Merrill’s legs, puts hands on her hips, and drags her closer. She squeals as she’s suddenly pulled, reaching for Hawke.

Merrill links her legs around Hawke’s waist as kisses are peppered against her palms. Hawke takes up that reach, laces their hands together. Moving over her, pressing her hands against the bed. Merrill keeps those legs tight, as Hawke bumps her forehead with hers. Playfully, she teases. A click of teeth at her cheek, pretending to bite at her nose. Merrill giggles under each one, surrenders to the kiss which completes it all.

“I wish we could stay in bed all day, every day,” Hawke says, lamenting.

“We’d go awfully hungry after a while. What would we eat?” Merrill asks, the smile in her voice. Hawke raises an eyebrow. Merrill shrieks as Hawke buries her face into her neck, nipping at the soft flesh there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	9. Monsters (Sera x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I think everyone is just pretending to be brave, and none of us really are. ❞ female Inquisitor and Sera. Thank you so much! I really love your work

A faint red, staining light against white. The snow melts around their every step. The heat seeps from them, worms its way into all. The falling flakes stand little chance. The air thickens, grows heavy in their approach. An instinctive reaction, to hold her breath. Her grip tightens around the hilt of her dagger. They move through the dark, through the graveyard of bare trees. Branches snap as they struggle to fit their misshapen frames through the brush. The lyrium hums. They answer. The red creeps closer. She presses her back against the bark.

They move with singular purpose. Heads down low, breathing through their mouths. The air distorts all about them, warmth made manifest. Their steps are all the same. They move towards the quarry, the garden of lyrium. She dares not make a sound as they begin to pass. Through the Red Templars, pressed against another tree, is Sera. Bow in her hands, arrow notched. Cassandra is ahead. Vivienne as well. They wait for her.

She is not made of heat, like they are. She feels the cold in her bones. A Templar passes her, stops. It seems to sniff, turn its head. The red moves with each flickered movement of its eyes. A bead of sweat rolls down her temple. She thinks it might hear the way her heart beats against the cage of her chest, but it turns its head back with the others, begins to move on. A slow exhale, breath fogging about her face. When she is sure they are by Cassandra, she pushes herself away from the tree with a yell. Her daggers glint in the moonlight.

Sera’s arrows are equipped with specially made gifts. The arrow finds purchase in what little flesh the Templars have left, and the bombs blow the lyrium apart. Cassandra holds one with her sword through its leg, her shield bashing against its skull. Vivienne moves snow, ice, to hold them, but it melts as quickly as she can make it. The lightning she throws at them hums between lyrium, bouncing blue between red. Lavellan is doing all she can to tear through armor and stone, pierce the still beating heart beneath the monster.

When it is done, Sera and Lavellan lean against each other in exhaustion. Vivienne has her eyes closed, her staff clutched in her hands. Cassandra lets her shield fall, braces herself with her sword. Five red Templars lay in a bloodied heap. The snow melts around them. The body dies, the lyrium lives on. The humming is some melodious cacophony, words which make no sense. It buzzes inside her thoughts, and she shakes her head to clear it. “Let’s get out of here,” she says as she sheathes her dagger. Vivienne opens her eyes, Cassandra takes up her shield. Sera holds her hand as they begin to leave.

They make their way from the forest, back to camp. Cassandra informs a scout of where the bodies are. They will be added to the garden – they cannot destroy it, all they can do is keep the lyrium in one place. Hopefully contained. “I hate those bloody things,” Sera murmurs in a low voice. Lavellan gives her hand a small squeeze.

“So do I,” she says. They share a glance. The Inquisitor will be rallying the troops in the morning. An assault upon the last haven of red Templars. She will be brave, say brave things, and make the Inquisition troops believe in victory. She still hears the humming, twined with the sound of the Templar attempting to smell her out. Sera steps closer, her arm wrapping around hers, putting her head on her shoulder. “Will you stay with me tonight?” Sera nods. At least, this way, with her, she won’t have the nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	10. Sign of Him (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt given: I would recognize your heartbeat from the ends of space.” or “Even in dreams, ghosts of former happiness haunt me.” destroy me

She is close enough to touch. She sits on the bench beside him, her palm flat against the wood. She moves as she laughs – forward to lean in, join the mirth. Back to exhale, to lean against the wall. Even as the laughter begins to dwindle, the smile still curls at her lips. Her eyes, bright, dart back and forth between those who speak. He remains silent, and yet, wants her eyes to rest upon him. She is close enough to touch. He could put his hand down on the bench, pretend it an accident. He could lean to the side, pretend moving out of the way of Isabela. She is close enough to touch. Yet, he doesn’t.

Hawke leans back in to the table, and takes her hand from the bench. She wraps both around the perspiring mug of ale, and her fingertips play with the drops of condensation they find there. It’s selfish, Fenris thinks, to want her attention so badly. He no longer knows his value, his worth. He could put it in a number, once. Now, he has to measure it in what others give him. He doesn’t know how to ask, how to demand. How could he even ask for something he doesn’t know how to put into words?

Fenris catches himself, looks away from her, down at the scratched and marked table. Years of being _theirs_. Isabela’s carvings are etched in each panel. Merrill’s inane scribblings. Dark stains where Varric has tipped over ink. A tally, made by Carver, all the times he’s come to visit since joining the Wardens. Even Aveline had drunkenly carved the shape of a flower into it. Anders, overjoyed, had that spot worked over with his magic. No matter how hard she might try, she would never be able to remove it. There is no mark, no sign of _him_. Fenris leaves nothing of himself. How could he expect anything from others?

 He still feels her hands on his face. The heat of her. The undivided attention. The whole of her heart, centered upon him. She laughs with others, and does not look at him, and he has no right to this pit. The jealousy that swirls, the awful abyss which threatens to swallow him whole. He walked away. He let go of her hand. The ghost of her touch now haunts him, teases him, and laughs at him. Fenris rubs a hand over his face. Tonight is not a night for others.

It’s easy enough, to slip away. To find some comfort in the coolness of night. “Fenris?” Breathless, behind him, “are you alright?” He turns, sees Hawke’s breath fogging underneath the light of the torch, the slight pink in her cheeks. She must have run to catch up with him.

“Yes,” he says instantly, “I’m fine.” The frown twists between her brows. “I am.” He will be, once he has made his peace with being alone once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	11. Bedsheets (Anders x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Could you do "You're not in bed. I came looking for you." for F!Handers? I love your fluff and angst so much

“My love,” she says. Her voice quiet, hoarse, still half-asleep and her footsteps ghost across the cool floor, the robe wrapped around her. She drapes herself over his shoulders, and her hands curl against his chest, fingers finding playful purchase against the lacing of his shirt. Her eyes close as she rests her chin heavy on his head, and she sighs. “Come back to bed.” The sound of the quill against parchment hasn’t paused even once, and even with hearing her voice, the writing doesn’t cease.

“I can’t,” he says, and his voice is soft because it is drowning in concentration – the words he speaks are the last words he thinks of, those he pours onto the page being of far greater importance. “I’ve almost got this.” A stack, upon stacks. Scrawled ink that never seems to end. Hawke opens her eyes. She tilts her head down, her chin moving so that she may press the kiss to the crown of his head. Her hands move against the cool skin of his chest, through the scratching stubble of an untamed beard. There are knots in his hair which need to be brushed out.

She stands up straight, walks beside him, places touch against his wrist. Subtle pressure, but enough. Finally, silence. “It’ll keep until morning. You need your rest.” She replaces the quill with her, lacing their fingers together. She pulls Anders away from the chair, the desk, the ink, the parchment, and the busy thoughts which swirl uncontrollably inside his head. She smiles over her shoulder at him, squeezes his hand tighter. He finally lifts his head, following through the hallways of the house. The moonlight pours in through the windows, enough to show the way.

The stairs creak underneath her weight. He knows which steps creak, and where. Instinctively, he avoids those spots. The covers are thrown back from where she had left the bed. The other side is still neatly tucked, untouched. She curls up against him as they lay down together. Slipping underneath one arm, resting her head on his chest. She keeps her hand flat against him, feels the beat of his heart underneath her palm. “I’m sorry,” he says as he reaches up, puts his hand over hers.

“It’s okay,” she says, “I understand.” She shifts, props herself up on an elbow, leans over him. “You need your sleep though, it’s just been –” she frowns. Finding him curled up on the couch, having had less than an hour. Seeing him waver on his feet in the clinic, rubbing his eyes. He hasn’t been eating. He’s barely been around the others. “You’re working yourself to death. You need a break.” He smiles at her, reaches up, brushes fingers against her cheek.

“I can’t. I’m so close. We’re making headway, I know it. If I stop, all of our work will be for nothing,” he says as he shakes his head. As his hand falls back to him, he covers the yawn. His eyes squeeze close, and he misses her frown before she settles back into his arms. She pulls the blankets up around them, half tucking them in together. She hopes he might fall asleep instantly. He doesn’t. His eyes blink open, and she can practically see the words he’s writing in his head. All she can do is curl closer, hold him tighter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	12. Length (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: softer world prompts, 32, mahanon and dorian pls?? / I think you are beautiful and I would like to kiss you. I can think up some clever lines, if you’d prefer. But I wanted to say that, first. (None of those lines seemed to be about you or me.)

He lays on his stomach, his arms crossed underneath his head. His eyes closed, his hair undone. It curls at his shoulder blades, collects as a river down his spine. A few stray strands make their way over his shoulders, the pillow. Dorian leans over, and watches as strands of hair slip through his fingers. Mahanon opens his eyes at the feel of it, and the smile lingers even as he closes his eyes once again. “Have you never wanted to cut it?” Dorian asks.

Mahanon shrugs as best he can, some half thing. “It gets in the way sometimes,” he says. It’s shorter around his ears, the sides all shaved back. An effort at keeping it out of his eyes, although, his usual bun does most of that work for him. “I’m used to it now, and I like it.” Dorian slips down from where he was sitting, the book lost in the blankets. Head resting on the pillow and his hand moves against his back, a kiss pressed to Mahanon’s shoulder.

“I rather like it as well,” he says, “Perhaps I should grow my hair out.” Mahanon’s eyes open once again, only to narrow. He studies Dorian, the lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, thinking to himself. Dorian raises his eyebrows, impatiently waiting for his assessment.

“You’d look like an evil magister,” Mahanon tells him bluntly. Dorian scoffs, rolls away, and Mahanon chases after him, laughing all the while. Leaning over Dorian, trapping him beneath his wait, turning his face towards his. “Don’t get me wrong.” He moves even closer to him, the pleased smirk hanging on his lips. He rubs his nose against his, eyes bright and mischievous. “You’d still be absolutely gorgeous.”

“Of course.” Dorian flips them deftly, or Mahanon allows himself to be moved – it doesn’t matter. Either way, they’re laughing, limbs tangled up, and breath warm against the other. A hand slips against Mahanon’s cheek, winds into his hair as Dorian kisses him deeply. Mahanon rises up to meet him, his fingertips fluttering at his waist. Palms warm, his skin warmer, and Mahanon moves his hands up and down Dorian’s back. “You’re not quite so bad yourself,” Dorian tells him. Mahanon grins, captures his bottom lip between his teeth, and pulls him back down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	13. Cards (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: softer world prompts, 45, perhaps fenris and hawke? / when I picture you with your new lover I get angry, and then sad, then kinda horny. (I miss you)

The cards land on the bed, and Isabela is swearing – a colorful mix, pulled from all places, different languages. Hawke laughs, something which starts bright, and doubles into a wheeze, and she presses a hand against her belly, as though she’s trying to hold it all back. “Please,” she says in a strained voice, “do not make me laugh. I feel like my guts are going to burst out every single time I do.” They play cards on Hawke’s bed, because it’s a place she isn’t able to leave. There will be, at the very least, a scar. There’s more – Hawke and Anders talk in low voices when no one else is around – but she’s said nothing to him. Fenris holds his cards close to his chest.  

Isabela is stretched out beside Hawke. Fenris and Merrill sit on opposite sides at the bottom of the bed. Varric, in a chair, laughs at Isabela as he pulls his winnings in. “Just got dealt some bad luck, Rivaini,” he says. Anders is slumped in his chair, head back, and cards about to fall. All of them look over at the loud snore, the rumble which echoes. Aveline shakes her head, Merrill covers her mouth and giggles.

“He’s exhausted,” Hawke says with sincere sympathy, “stuck taking care of me.”

“I don’t think he minds,” Isabela says as she holds out her hands. Everyone hands over their cards, except for Anders, and she begins to shuffle them again. “I bet he’s walking on air with how much time he gets to spend with you now.” She looks up from the cards, gives Fenris a smirk and wink. He knows what she’s doing. She begs a reaction. He gives her none. Hawke gives Isabela’s arm a small swat. Fenris takes his cards without complaint, begins to organize them into pairs.

“Oh! The clinic has three more cats! I haven’t named them yet,” Merrill says.

“I have some supplies. I’ll come down tomorrow to help you,” Aveline tells her.

“I can help with names,” Varric says, “but I’ve got nothing else useful to bring.”

“That’s alright Varric! You’re very helpful and nice. You make everyone laugh, and they all like you,” Merrill says. She hums as she counts her cards, moves them without real rhyme or reason.

“It’s nice to be assured of my place in the community,” Varric chuckles.

“Well, if everyone’s going to be there, I might as well come too. I have some goodies I can bring. Anders might want to make sure everything running smoothly. That mean – Fenris on Hawke duty tomorrow?” Isabela says.

“There doesn’t need to be a ‘Hawke duty’,” she says instantly, looking around at all of them. “I’m fine. It just needs time to heal. I’m sure Fenris has better things to do with his time.”

“I will bring food for lunch,” he says instantly, laying down his hand. More swearing, and Fenris holds out his hand, takes Varric’s winnings from him.

“Yeah especially now that he has the coin for it,” Varric says, lamenting his loss.

“You don’t have to,” Hawke says in a small voice. Fenris shakes his head.

“I would like to.” He says it simply, tries not to make it more than it is. The others are continuing to talk, filled with laughter, and are moving onto the next topic of conversation. Anders is still snoring away. Fenris and Hawke look at each other from opposite ends of the bed, smile, and look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	14. Choices (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: All my choices led me to you" for Zevran and f!Surana?

A strange sensation, to share a tent with someone else. He has made the choice to stay. He does not speak it, tell her so, but he believes she still knows. They lie side by side, face each other. Their legs have tangled together without their realizing, but their hands are different. She lets her fingertips drift over the back of his, over knuckle and vein. She taps gently upward, a spider so graceful on its web, over his wrist, the first tendrils of the tattoo which circle his arm. Zevran watches her face all the while, the way she so deeply concentrates on the touch. Long dark lashes, and there’s a strand of hair falling at her temple. He holds himself back, doesn’t let himself brush it away for her.

“If there were no Wardens, no Darkspawn, what would you be doing right now?” Zevran asks her, and her movements still. She hums as she thinks, her gaze drifting over the canvas of the tent, circling around, settling on him.

“I’d likely still be in the tower,” she says. “There would’ve been no reason for me to leave.” For reasons he cannot explain, her words make him profoundly sad. There’s an ache he cannot name that builds in his chest, twists at his lungs, chokes his heart. “And you?”

“I would be on my way to Ferelden, to rescue a certain someone from her tower,” Zevran says. She laughs, softly but easily.

“You wouldn’t know me!” He moves over to her, over her, and settles his weight down. His forehead settling against her pillow, against her head, his legs between hers. She wraps her arms around him, her hands anchoring in his shirt. “Zevran?”

“I would find you,” he says, his voice muffled. Each step he has taken, from Antiva to now, has brought him to her doorstep. He would not stray from such a path, even if his steps needed to change. Every choice, every decision, and he cannot put it into words. He hugs her harder, holds her tighter, and she smiles in his embrace. She runs her hand through his hair, settling at the nape of his neck, and turns her head to kiss the shell of his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	15. Quiet (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I know your weakness. It’s kisses. You are doomed. (Don’t worry. We’re all doomed eventually.) Fenris x F!Hawke please!!

They sit together. Fenris leans against her, his back against her chest, his head resting in the crook of her neck. Her legs on either side of him, a hand absentmindedly playing with strands of his hair. She’s looking out the window, at the rain which falls against the glass. Sun showers. It will end soon. The book is haphazardly held in his other hand, loose and lax, his eyes closed. Her fingertips brush against the shell of his ears, move against his bangs. The slightest space, and she plants a kiss. Hawke’s lips are soft, her breath warm, and his ears twitch at the feel of it, the smile spreading across his face.

With the window slightly open, protected by the lip of the roof, they can hear the way it pools against the cobblestone of the streets. Birds chirp distantly, finding shelter in any of the many nooks and crannies of the buildings. The scent of fresh earth, approaching petrichor. Laughter from those caught underneath, footsteps hurried, running hand in hand. They, so still, and the world yet moves. Fenris is content to stay a little longer. He tilts his face up to hers as the book falls from his hand. A finger at her chin, turning her towards him, seeking her lips.

There’s nothing to be said. He doesn’t want to break the silence of their own making. A stray strand of Hawke’s hair falls from behind her ear, brushes against his cheek. Her kisses are sweet, her touch kind. That hand still plays in his hair. The other settles against his chest, feeling his heart beat underneath her palm. There had always been an itch. Something that kept him moving. Running from one place to the next, the inability to feel safe. Now… here, in her arms, it’s quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	16. Tender (Fenris x M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I know your weakness. It’s kisses. You are doomed. (Don’t worry. We’re all doomed eventually.) for fenhawke because I am weak for when you write fenhawke.

He runs his fingers through Hawke’s beard. It was strange at first. Scratching. Uncomfortable. Hawke moves slowly, gently wraps his hands around his wrists, and pulls them away. He leans forward, presses the kiss against his lips. His beard scratches. A comfort. He flutters those kisses against his cheeks, playful and smiling. Fenris chuckles, low and easy, moves his hands free of Hawke’s grasp. He presses touch against his chest, pushing him away without any real strength.

Hawke’s hands are large, rough to feel and never rough to touch. Calloused finger tips, palms, but he holds Fenris in a way he holds nothing else. It’s taken some time to find the right word for it. _Tenderly_. He’s seen the way Hawke moves in battle. With brutal efficiency, hard and calculated. It’s different here. Skin against skin, and he flounders softly. Fenris knows he’s the same way in a fight, but this is no fight. This is a dance, and he thinks Hawke might have made him tender too.

His hands rest on Fenris’s hips. They move, up his spine, and one splays between his shoulder blades. He keeps him still with the barest touch. He runs his fingers through Hawke’s beard. It scratches against his face. “Fen,” he murmurs as his eyes close, touches lip against lip. Fenris holds his face in his hands, fingers curling against his cheeks. Wrapping his arms around him, letting himself sink against him. They sway, leaning against one another, step in time with the other.

His mind is blank, his every thought swept away by the kiss. Hawke seeks harder, digs deeper, and Fenris opens his mouth to him, lets tongue touch against tongue. He tastes of echoes, promises, something sweeter. So easy to be lost in it, to drown, to let himself be pulled in Hawke’s current. He opens his eyes, to see that perched frown between Hawke’s brows, as though he is a desperate man and Fenris his buoy. He closes his eyes, knowing they are both ruined by the other. Weak, pulled apart. Built back up by the end of it, something closer, someone loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	17. Pretty Words (Alistair x M!Warden) Mild NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: You're so, so, so pretty." With Alistair and Amell?

He moves with grace. Languid motions, muscles that swim in movement, roll with primal instinct. His body knows the dance, even though his thoughts are tangles, don’t completely know the steps. The hand on his chest trembles, the other palm pressed beside his head. Eyes close, only to open, the shudder on his bottom lip. Alistair reaches up, puts a hand against his cheek, slipping to the nape of his neck, and pulls him close. He bends easily, from palms to elbows, forehead against forehead. Alistair slowly rocks his hips upwards, and Amell meets every thrust.

Amell bites his bottom lip, lashes fluttering, finally to open. Dark liquid pools, himself almost reflected in them. There’s a flush on his cheeks and in his chest. Alistair tilts his face up gently, testing the waters for a kiss. Lip brushes against lip, only to part, only for him to crush his mouth against his. This is a thing without grace. Heated and needed, chapped lips and meeting tongue, a groan in his throat. “Alistair,” he says, each syllable wrapped around the moan. He leans back, puts his palm against Alistair’s chest once again.

Alistair moves with him. Putting a hand behind himself, propping himself up. His other hand splays at his back, Amell’s legs on either side of him. He drapes his arms over Alistair’s shoulder, pulls himself close. The warmth rises off of him in waves, something from the very core of him. “I want to see you,” Alistair says and it’s spoken low, muted, hoarse. He obliges, practically nose against nose. The flush in his cheeks deepens underneath Alistair’s gaze.

There’s a birthmark near his ear, on his left cheek. A single spot, the only hint that three more hide behind his earlobe. Shoulder-length black hair, hastily cut, held for the dagger to be pulled through. Messy, choppy, so brilliantly him. There’s bags under his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping, and maybe that’s a little his fault, but he’d make it up to him. He doesn’t know the right way to call him. Pretty seems close. Handsome as well. Gorgeous. Beautiful. Close, not enough. Alistair hunches forward, both hands on him now, holding him, smiling up at him. “I love you,” he says, ever earnestly.

Amell holds his face in his hands, wearing his own smile. This kiss is met enthusiastically, carefully, deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	18. Amor (Zevran x F!Warden)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I think it has to do with the whole assassin thing, but I really can't imagine drunk zevran at all xD, Maybe he gets into a drinking contest in orzammar trying to win something, or gets knocked on the head and is a lil high from the blow, either way- what type of drunk do you think he'd be?

“He’s fine,” Wynne says with a smile, “besides the concussion.” Zevran has his head in the crook of Noya’s neck. Bent over, murmuring nothingness into her skin, while she holds him upright. “He should be fine in a few hours. Consider it a magical hangover.” Noya pats his back while he nuzzles his face against her. Leliana covers her mouth with her hand, but even that can’t quite stifle the laughter. They all know the way he is when he’s mildly drunk – still Zevran, but with lighter laughter, a flush in his face, and his hand in theirs. This is _drunk_ to a point where he never lets himself be.

Wherever Noya goes, he follows. Fair enough, she was planning on staying by his side until he was fully recovered anyway. She sits on the ground, cross-legged, sharpening her spear. He is at her back, a leg on either side of her. Zevran rests his head against her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her. “ _Mi amor, estoy muy cansado_ ,” he says. It’s slightly slurred, spoken with his cheek pressed against her. She smiles, slows her strokes, puts the stone down as she turns her head slightly.

“Common, please, unless you’ve learned to speak Dalish,” she says.

“I want to. I want to – tell you everything, in every language,” he says, ever so fiercely. “Teach me.” He holds her tighter, and his fingers press at her belly. “Teach me. Teach me.” She drops the spear, puts her hands over his, and pulls them away from tickling her.

“Later. First, tell me what you said.”

“I said – something.” He frowns, groans, and presses his forehead against her back. She reaches behind her, gives the top of his head a light scratch.

“It’s alright,” she says. “Are you comfortable? Hungry?”

“ _Muy cansado_ ,” he sighs as he hugs her tightly once again. She shakes her head. He seems content enough to simply hold her, and she feels a squeeze occasionally – followed by a smile. “Noya.”

“Yes?”

“Noy- _ya_.”

“Yes.” 

“ _Mi amor_.”

“ _Vhenan_.” Another squeeze of a hug, the smile pressed against her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	19. Braided (Iron Bull x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Anything with a fluffy iron bull and female trev! Love your work its amazing! Please and thank you! <3

He’s never been a fit for more precise work. With his mouth, his words, decisions… perhaps. With his hands? Never so. Give him a big fucking sword and he’s good to go. “Bull,” she says, reaching back, her smile reflected in the mirror. She puts her hand over his, stops his movements. “It doesn’t need to be perfect.” He looks away from his work, into that mirror and yes, the frown is quite pronounced. He forces himself to relax, and gently swats her hand away.

“It’s gonna be.” She chuckles under her breath, sits back in the chair. Her hand fidgets in her lap, playing with the hem of her tunic.

“I should just cut it.”

“I can do this,” Bull says, “and besides, I love your hair.” He pauses in crafting the braid to bring a strand to his lips, kiss her dark locks. He never thought a braid could be so hard. His fingers fumble, and it’s messy, loose. But he ties the end of it, drapes it over her shoulder to inspect. Her hand goes first to where the other should be – the tied sleeve, the cut above the elbow.

“Thank you,” she says as she wraps her hand around the end of the long braid. She tilts her face upwards, puts her head back against his belly. He puts his hands on her shoulders.

“I’ll get better at it anyway,” Bull says, looking down at her, “since I’ll be doing it every day.” She smiles, closes her eyes, rests her head against his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	20. Leashed (F!Hawke, Carver)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: "you leave them nothing. you shame them. does that make you proud?" for hawke? (or whoever you think it would fit best!) :D

The Gallows is oddly quiet, far more than the rest of the city. It’s an echoing silence, where each noise is punished with a glance, a feeling. Those who conduct their business here do so in whispers, not because what they do is illegal, but because this place demands it of them. Her footsteps seem to bellow as she marches across the stone. Hawke looks towards the closed gates, the entry way towards the Circle, towards the Order. How telling in _this_ place being chosen. “Maker, even I hate this place,” Carver mutters under his breath.

“There’s more tranquil today than there were yesterday,” she says. He always flexes his hand when he means to reach for the hilt of his great sword, keeps himself from doing so. He may not state such things outwardly, but it’s in these small movements which show how he means to protect her. Warms her heart, it does. Hawke puts a hand on his arm, gives him a reassuring nod, before she lets it fall back to her side.

“Should you be here?” He asks.

“We don’t really have a choice,” she says, as they move underneath the shadows of the banners which fly the Kirkwall insignia. They’re strung up between the gold statues of slaves. City of Chains, indeed. Athenril leans against the wall in one of the corners, the hood pulled over her head. She’s smoking a pipe, pretending to pay no attention, but her eyes track all who come and go. There was a question raised once, about why she conducted her business under the nose of the Templars.

“The guard don’t interfere with the Templars,” she had said, “and the Templars don’t care.” After all, a large portion of her smuggling operation is lyrium – which goes directly into the pockets of the Templars. Athenril stands up straighter when she sees them coming.

“Hawkelings,” she says as they approach, “what do you have for me?” They conduct their business quickly. As they exchange coin and goods, Hawke glances over her shoulder towards the gates once again.

“What would happen if you stopped supplying the Templars with extra lyrium?” she asks, offhand. Athenril looks up from counting coin, shrugs her shoulders.

“They’d probably hunt me down, first of all. And then they’d find a different supplier. They’re always desperate, and ready to pay. It wouldn’t take them long to find someone willing,” she says. Hawke only nods at her answer, while Carver gives Hawke a small frown at the question.

“What was that about?” He asks, in a quiet whisper, leaning towards her as they begin to leave. Hawke is watching the tranquil which mill about, aimlessly walking from one end of the Gallows to the other.

“They take everything from the tranquil, then they put them out here to warn other mages. What kind of satisfaction do you think that gives them?” Hawke resists the urge to reach for her staff. “They’re leashed as much as the mages, they just don’t realize it because they aren’t punished for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	21. Salt (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: When you’re ready, come find me, my heart is open. ❞ FenHawwwwwke

“Too much salt,” she says with a smile, putting her hand over his, stopping him from dumping the rest in. When she turns, going to the counter, he lets the rest of the salt fall. She turns back as he brushes his hand against the side of his trousers. He joins her, and she wordlessly passes him a knife, and an onion. They work side by side, chopping carrots, garlic, vegetable after vegetable. She’s meticulous with amounts, delicate with her own knife.

“You did not need to do this,” he says, watching as she bends before the power, stirs the pot.

“You can’t exist on sweets and pastries alone,” Hawke says, looking at him over her shoulder. She has her hair pulled loosely back, some messy knot. Most of it slips free, curls at her cheeks. As she stands, she brushes some of it behind her ear. That hand quickly goes underneath the spoon, as though he cares if anything falls from it. The floor is messy enough. She holds it out to him, tilting her head. “Try?” Fenris looks from her, to it.

He reaches, takes the spoon from her. The steam rises from the broth, those carefully diced carrots, seasoned chicken. Hot on his tongue but it’s good – maybe a bit too much salt. He nods, hands the spoon back to her. “And I don’t simply eat pastries,” Fenris says. She laughs as she puts the spoon in the sink. She turns with a grin on her face. She leans against the counter, hands curling around the edges of it. She seems so utterly at ease, as though nothing bothers her. As though they hadn’t begun to talk again only a few days ago. His heart still twists at the guilt of it.

“Apples don’t count as a real meal, Fenris. Neither does whatever the Hanged Man serves. I’m not really sure that can be called food,” she says. “Besides, cooking isn’t the worst of skills to have especially when you have someone so wonderful teaching you.” She crows it, presses a hand against her chest and tilts her chin upwards. The chuckle first chokes out of him, moves into something easier. He shakes his head as he pulls out a chair and sits at the table. After a moment, she does the same, sitting across from him.

“What should I do for breakfast tomorrow, then, if you are not here to show me?” he asks.

“Oh that isn’t fair. You always wake up at an ungodly hour. Maybe tomorrow you should let yourself sleep in and then you can come over for brunch,” she says.

“What is ‘brunch’?” Hawke’s eyes immediately light up. She talks not only with her mouth, but her hands as well. They twist and turn as she describes sweet cake-like things you can make in a pan, but it is _not_ a pastry. Her shoulders roll with her as she explains the meal betwixt breakfast and lunch, which is more of an excuse to utterly gorge. Her freckles move with her smile, the dimples on her cheeks. She shows no sign of discomfort in his presence, or anger, or regret. This strange normalcy, the time she makes for him, is her way of showing him that it’s alright.

He links his hands together on the table, and watches as she speaks. He doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until she points it out. “I knew you’d like the idea of brunch,” she says, planting an elbow and leaning forward, “spoil yourself and sleep in. Then when you’re ready, you can come and find me.” His smile widens slightly.

“Perhaps I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	22. To The Death (Cassandra x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: i don’t know what the fuck true love even is but i do want to hang out with you for basically the rest of my life. (let’s hang out - TO THE DEATH) Cassandra Pentaghast and Female Inquisitor (ace/aro inquisitor if you can swing it) Thank you!

She is _exhausted_.

Bruised, still bloodied, the ache in her bones. She should be in bed, her own or perhaps at the healer’s. Still, here and now, there is no place she would rather be. The Great Hall is mostly quiet, a few people talking in small circles. The kind of soft conversations one can only have after a narrow battle of life or death. The candles are beginning to ebb low in their wick. The sun will be coming up soon. The band plays a subdued tune, just for her. For them. Cassandra keeps an arm around her waist, her hand in hers. The Inquisitor lies her head upon her shoulder, keeps her eyes closed. Together, they sway.

Cassandra is as tired as she is, that she knows. They are the only couple which dance together. The conversations will die out soon, and they’ll head to bed with all the rest. Tomorrow, they will plan for a future, a purpose for the Inquisition, without Corypheus. She keeps her arm around Cassandra’s waist, hugs her closer. It’s barely a dance, truly, but they still make steps, turn in a slow circle. Cassandra leans her head against hers, closes her eyes as well.

Perhaps even more than the battle, the celebrations had run them ragged. The earlier feast, the eruptions of cheers. From one person to the next, the rotation through the crowd. A handshake here, a pat on the back there. They all think her so available to them. They touch her, when she would rather not be touched at all. She frowns, remembering it all, and whatever little space is left between them, she closes it. Cassandra is different from all the rest, an entirely different sphere of being altogether.

Cassandra moves her head when she moves her, presses forehead against forehead. “No more potentially world shattering battles,” she says. Cassandra snorts laughter, and she can feel it in the twitch of her hand against her back.

“I will do my best to keep you free of them, _liebling_ ,” Cassandra says, “or at least, fight them with you.” The sun has begun to peek through the glass, and the final notes of the song fade away. Sera sleeps at a table with her head in her arms. Bull is still picking away at the leftovers. Cole is still speaking to Varric. The others have all gone. Cassandra adjusts the way she holds her hand, gently pulls her along towards her bedroom. They walk up the stairs in silence, and fall into bed together with a strangled sound of relief, something between a sigh and a moan.

They’ll feel it all worse, later. There will be so many meetings, discussions, decisions. But… later. For now, they curl up together, and dream of a future without fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	23. Spirits (Sera, Blackwall)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: I've never prompted you before, so I don't know if this is the right way to do it, but what about a Blackwall and Sera friendship shenanigans?

They sit together, side by side, underneath the towering shade of Skyhold. Sera holds a bowl of marshmallows of her lap, which Blackwall happily helps himself to occasionally. They watch as Mahanon once again adjusts the bow in Dorian’s hands, places the arrow for him. Standing behind him, drawing back his arm. Sera chortles to a snort when the arrow flies pathetically into the ground. “Who do you think approached who?” Blackwall asks.

“Well, it’ll be Nan, innit?” Sera says, one cheek filled like a chipmunk.

“Really? But Dorian seems like the sort of person to flirt first.”

“Flirt, ye, but askin’ bout _serious_ things? Makin’ things serious? That’s all Nan. He’s got all the guts,” Sera says, shoving another marshmallow into her mouth. They watch as he rocks with laughter as Nan hands over the arrow to Dorian, and he snatches it away, slaps it against the bow to try again.

“Dorian has plenty of guts,” Blackwall says, “he risked his life to come to Ferelden and help us, if you remember.” Sera vigorously shakes her head, the chopped bits of her hair flying wildly. She speaks with her mouth still half full.

“Not those _guts_. He’s plenty brave ‘n’ good, if it ain’t about him. Personal stuff, yeah? It’s easy t’fight, not so easy t’be vulnerable like that, with another person,” she says.

“You’re surprisingly insightful,” Blackwall says, reaching over to steal one of the few that’s left. Sera shrugs, tilts her head, a wide grin on her face.

“I know.” They sit in mostly silence, watching as Nan whispers into Dorian’s ear, puts his hands over his in order to guide the arrow. They pull back the bow together… and this time it makes its mark. It lands solidly square at the bottom of the target, but it’s on the target nonetheless. Nan cheers the loudest, wrapping arms around Dorian’s waist in order to pick him up and spin him. Even from so far away, Sera and Blackwall can hear Dorian’s half-hearted protests.

Two heads turn and follow the single figure which makes its way across the courtyard, past Nan and Dorian. Solas carries books in arms, pays no mind to all the rest. “Oi,” Sera says, putting the bowl down on the stone beside her, “d’ye think he ever, you know –” she makes crude thrusting motions with her hands “– spirits in the fade?” Blackwall instantly erupts into wild laughter, holding his belly as though it might burst, taken with delight.

“Oh, next time I get the chance, I am asking him,” he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	24. Statues (Solas x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: A prompt: romanced Solas finding Levellan in trespasser and discovering he's too late, Levellan is dead.

He traces steps not his own. His hands clasped behind his back, a leisurely pace, through the garden of statues he has made. The Qunari are forever trapped in his shell of stone, a pause in the track of time. Soon, they will be swallowed, just as all other things in this place. Vines will tremble up their legs, curl around their spears. Winter will come, winter will pass, daisies and dandelions will grow at their feet in spring. They always sought internal peace, thought they had found stillness in the Qun. Now he has given them peace eternal.

He pauses, at the eluvian. Still flickering, active, and he had believed Lavellan right behind him. Solas looks over his shoulder, at the crumbling ruins. It would have been the perfect place, standing in the graveyard of their ancestors. A piece of what they once had, something they might have again. It was wonderful, once. More beautiful than any other palace currently standing in Thedas. He would have explained. He is used to it now, the chill of the eluvians. He follows the running steps in the mud, the fleeing Viddasala and her troops.

He stands upon other ruins, means to go to the courtyard. Such quiet. More Qunari, dead, and not by his hands. He steps over fallen weapon, outstretched hand. There are cracks in the stone, put there not by age or weather, but by some terrible burst of magic. Perhaps, the Saarebas Saarath? No… not quite, this is… different. He tilts his head at the sight of it, glinting in the sun. A sword he recognizes. Reaching down, and there is blood on the blade. He never imagined Cassandra might let such a precious thing slip from her grasp.

And she hasn’t.

He finds her, a few paces further. Reaching out towards it, her shield shattered beside her. A slow exhale, trying to quell the ache inside him. The growing knot of worry, the nauseating growl of fear. Blackwall isn’t far from her, surrounded by Qunari. Sat against a wall, his head bowed. He finds Dorian on the steps, his staff broken in two. Slumped against a stair, the side of his head slick with blood. She kneels in the center. Qunari around her, thrown away. She holds her hand above her, and she is stone, much as the statues he had made.

 He stands before her, reaches out. He hesitates, before his fingertips barely brush against her cheek. Her stone is sick, blackened, and the touch leaves ash upon his skin. She is cracked, through and through, ghostly veins of glowing green. The anchor has a pulse of its own, and it resonates through her, free of any mortal control. All he can do is kneel with her, and his hands flutter about her face. He means to cup it, hold her, but he fears he might break her. Her face is permanently etched in something close to agony.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he whispers, voice cracking against each syllable. His hands clench into fists, press against his knees. His back hunched, his head bowed, as if a supplicant engaged in prayer. The tears fall hot against the back of his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	25. Thought, Echo (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: idk if you listen to starset, but their song 'telepathic' reminds me very strongly of fenris and hawke. so i challenge you, jaws, to listen to telepathic and write something inspired by it. (also i’m owlbutt on ao3 and into the fray is mY ABSOLUTE FUCKING FAVORITE FIC!!!)
> 
> \--
> 
> I'd actually never listened to Starset until you sent in this prompt! And thank you so much! <3

She puts her hand over his heart. Gently, just there, fingertips coming to rest against his skin, palm warm when it settles. A small pattern, a circle made with touch. She curls against him, pulls a leg over his, and she smiles as his arm wraps around her, his hand settling on her hip. He lets his head lie against hers, closing his eyes as her heat envelops him, more comforting than any blanket. Fenris has allowed himself to grow used to this, this easy something, the winding of his life so deeply with her.

It’s as though she knows his every thought before he forms it himself. “I’ll be back before you can miss me,” Hawke says, tilting her face upwards, her nose brushing against his cheek, and the kiss follows soon after. It’s an easy enough thing to roll over, roll her with him, and trap her beneath him. Hands find hands, and he presses them against the pillow. Her hair splays all about her, a wild dark sea, protecting the oasis which shines in her gaze. Brightly blue, perfectly freckled, and he slowly lets his weight settle over her.

He wants to tell her all the things which run through his head, late at night, while she sleeps and he cannot. Fenris fears she already knows them, and has her mind set on leaving still. So, “stay with me,” is all he can say. Softly, tenderly, spoken against her lips, her cheeks, against her ear. She slips so easily from his grasp, lets her hand tangle in his hair, the other against the line of his back. He buries his head in the crook of her neck.  

“If only I could, love,” she says. “I wish I could. You know I do.” He knows her reasons for leaving, understands them all, and still wishes he could change them. Hawke wouldn’t _be_ Hawke if she didn’t answer the call of someone who needed her aid. His need of her is selfish, greedy, but he needs her all the same. He wraps an arm underneath her, hand at her shoulder, the other following the line from bended knee, to thigh, to hip. He knows the feel of her well, and will not forget. The sound of her voice always plays an echo, her smile permanently etched in his thoughts. To every situation, he can guess her reaction, what she might say. It pales to the real thing.

Hawke holds his face in her hands. “Fenris, love, I promise I won’t be gone long,” she says as she brushes the hair from his brow. He lets his other arm wrap around her as well, holds her tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	26. Across Thedas (Dorian x M!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: How’s about a song prompt? 10,000 Miles - Mary Chapin Carpenter for Dorian/Inquisitor?

“And after I finish closing all the rifts, I’ll join you in Minrathous,” he says, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. Dorian throws a tunic from the floor to the bed, and then gives him an exhausted glance. Packing has been a rather scattered affair, constantly pushed from one day to the next – and should he bring this book? Surely he won’t need these papers. Would what he’s acquired in Skyhold be celebrated or derided in Minrathous? Piles upon piles, reasons upon reasons never to finish packing.

“Here I thought we rather closed that discussion,” he says, as Mahanon pushes himself away from the wall, goes to sit on the bed. He pulls the tunic from Dorian’s pack and lies back, holding it to his chest.

“ _You_ did. I still think I could slip into the city without notice,” he says.

“Nothing goes unnoticed in that city,” Dorian says, rounding the bed, kneeling at the edge, over Mahanon, his hand curling into the shirt. “No matter how careful you may be.”

“Then let them come, you of all people should know I’m not an easy target,” he says, reaching up to the nape of Dorian’s neck, pulling him down. It’s easy enough to haul him up by his trousers, half-tossing him onto the bed, so that Mahanon can flip their positions easily. He keeps Dorian pinned, a hand against his collarbones, fingers touching at his neck. Knees on either side of him, straddling him confidently.

“Oh I am quite aware,” Dorian says as he wraps a hand around Mahanon’s wrist, “but this would not be like anything you’ve faced before.”

“Really? Do the Venatori not count? Demons at rifts? A darkspawn Magister? The Orlesian Court?” He allows himself to be turned, for Dorian to press at his hips and push him down. Dorian settles his weight upon him as Mahanon runs hands through his short dark hair. A small stitch of delighted laughter escapes him as he feels teeth against his neck, touch slipping underneath his shirt. It’s a distraction, while Dorian turns his answer over and over in his mind.

Every touch is a confirmation. Grounding, real. The hurried way in which he pulls off Mahanon’s tunic forces loose the messy bun of his hair, sending all of it cascading down. He threads his hands through it as they curl together, hands at his back, his hips, and the kisses messy at his chin before they find his mouth. His hands never settle. They move, constantly, over Mahanon’s spine, the _vallaslin_ on his chest and hips, coming back for something warmer at his face. It’s only when Mahanon’s hands move downwards, at the lacings of his trousers, when the fever ends and Dorian stops him.

They sit up together, facing each other, legs still half tangled together, and Dorian lets his head rest on Mahanon’s shoulder with a sigh. “I am terrified,” he says, and his voice is small, hesitant, “that I will lose you. You _would_ be a target, but not simply because it’s you, but because of _me_. You have ruined me, _amatus_. I never had such a glaring weakness before.” Mahanon softly smiles, leans his head against his, his hand moving slowly up and down Dorian’s arm.

“From the moment I first met you, you’ve protected my back. Just as I’ve protected yours. We’re good together, in every way,” he says. “I do understand, _ma_ _vhenan_. But when will you return? When will I see you again? Hear your voice? Touch you? You’ll be so far away and I won’t know if something… happens to you. That uncertainty scares me more than anything. I’ve crossed Thedas to attend a Conclave I had no stake in. Do you think I won’t cross Thedas for you?”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	27. Snow (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: prompt if you're bored! fenf!hawke, he's freezing and exhausted, she lifts his hands to her face and he can feel the life flowing back into him. inspired by the freezing temps here and me wrapping my hands around my tea mug and literally whispering OHHHHHHH I'm ALIIIIVE.

It is still, but more than that, the silence overpowers. Loud in the nothingness of it all, the muffled quality of life itself. The branches of the trees don’t move in the wind, anchored by the snow. Barely anything moves, save for them, trudging through. Fenris and Hawke walk side by side, the snow angrily deep, soaking them up to their knees. Breath fogs around Hawke’s mouth, and more still, when she smiles at him. She sighs as she comes to a sudden stop. She lets the bag slip from her shoulder, and drop, a stone in white water. Her staff soon follows.

Fenris stops, turns and watches as Hawke lets herself fall back. She practically disappears with a muted _thump_. He makes his way beside her, stands above her. She’s grinning up at him, her cheeks and nose brightly red. He has no doubt her ears will be the same color, even though they’re covered by her hair, the hood. “Bend low, sweet branch,” she says in an exaggerated voice, “bend low, and allow me the sweet caress of thine leaves.” She raises her arms, reaches out to him.

“Varric?” he asks.

“Isabela, actually. She gave me a book of naughty poetry before we left,” she says. 

“Our clothes will be wet,” he says.

“Sometimes I think you forget you’re travelling with a mage.” His back still aches, even as he sets down his own bag. He leans the sword against it and then – it’s far too easy to drop to his knees. To lifelessly pitch forward, allow Hawke to catch him. She chuckles as she wraps her arms around him, pulls him close. Fenris closes his eyes, feels the rise and fall of Hawke breathing beneath him. Against his cheek, her scarf is equal parts warm and cold. She pulls her hands free of her gloves, lets her fingers move through his hair. Her other hand goes to his cheek.

It starts slow, as it always does. Room to say no. She lets her magic move through him, a liquid warmth which spills down his spine, surrounds bone and muscle. Hawke’s heat has always felt like her. Not coarse, or violent – less fire, more sunlight. Her thumb moves in circles against his skin, working out the cold from every inch of him. “I will enjoy a proper bed,” he says, his words half-mumbled. She chuckles, nestles her head against his.

“Me too,” she says. In the still and in the silence, he listens to her breathe. He tilts his head upwards and her lips, her touch, possess more warmth than any magic could conjure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	28. Beside (Blackwall x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: i hope you’re doing well. your writing has helped cheer me up lately in times of stress, so i wanted to thank you for that! if you’re taking requests right now, could you please write inquisitor and blackwall fluff? maybe where blackwall is being sweet and gentle and touches her waist only to find out she’s very ticklish. maybe it could then lead to cuddles when he also learns that she loves his hands as she plays with and holds them to stop him from tickling. thank you so much!!

He had long made friends with loneliness. The isolation was accepted, a necessary part of atonement. He never minded falling asleep in some corner, unbothered by the rain, the sleet and the snow. Holed up somewhere he deemed safe enough, his sword and shield within reach. There were times some recruit might stay with him for a while, but Blackwall always made sure to pass them off to a proper Grey Warden in short order. There was an uncertain quiet to it, silent in most ways. Still, he was unable to break the wave of his thoughts upon a rock, against the bulwark of another person.

Better now, to wake alongside her.

The light crystallizes in the snow, the glass of Skyhold. The sunlight is gentle now, no less warm, but it still does not match her warmth. He doesn’t mind the way her hair sometimes tickles at his face, how she might twitch in her sleep, or the way she subtly steals the blankets. It’s a reason to be closer. He rests his head against hers, puts a hand on her hip. She breathes evenly as she lies on her side, and although he cannot see her face like this, he knows the small smile that curls at her lips. It’s given away in how she shifts, moves closer to him.

He moves his hand upwards, over the curve of her, intends to wrap his arm around her. Instead, as he presses his fingers against her belly, she breathes out concerned laughter, some muffled protestation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he says as he catches her completely, the tickling deliberate this time. She writhes underneath his grasp, breathless laughter as she rolls onto her back, moves to face him, her hands clenched around his wrists.

“I said I’m very ticklish!” She laughs, she smiles, the lines of her face all crinkling with happiness, her hair mused and blankets tangled in her legs.

“Apologies my lady, I had no idea,” Blackwall tells her, unable to keep his own laughter from her voice, as she bucks away from him, over him, pinning his wrists against the bed.

“You are a menace,” she says, her face very near to his, planting the smallest kiss at the tip of his nose. She leans back comfortably, straddling him still, and brings his hands with her. She closes her eyes as she brings one to her face. She leans into that touch, his palm against her cheek. She keeps one hand against the back of his, the other drifting up and down his arm.

“Despite your mischief,” she says, her eyes opening, looking at him, “nothing makes me feel safer than your hands.” His thumb moves in small circles against her cheekbone.

“Good morning wife,” he says softly.

“Good morning husband,” she murmurs back as she leans forward, keeping his hand close, and presses her lips against his. There’s a comfortable quiet to it, a certain sort of peace, in every way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	29. Wounds (Blackwall x F!Inquisitor)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: inquisitor x blackwall... i’m not sure what i want exactly, i’m not picky.. just looking for something sweet and uplifting.

It’s only when they make it back to camp does he realize what’s happened. The warmth turns to cold, and he finally takes notice of the blood pouring down his arm. A ragged tear, in the soft fabric. A jagged slice, in softer flesh. The adrenaline wears away, and the pain sets in. No great matter, he’s suffered worse. Blackwall leans his shield against the small stump of a tree, begins to unbuckle the clasps of his breastplate, undo his belt. The clothes are easy enough to remove, but the odd movement of his arm causes a wince of flaring pain. The breeze prickles against the sweat on his back, his chest, and the weeping red stain.

Her hands are unexpectedly cold at his wrist. Coming alongside him, her brows narrowed with concern as she looks at the slice. “You didn’t say anything when we were walking back,” she says, looking at Blackwall. He shakes his head.

“Plain truth be told, I didn’t even feel it until now,” he says. “It’s no bother. I was just about to stitch it up.” She looks up at him, gives him a small smile.

“You could rely on me a bit,” she says, guiding him towards that stump. She puts her hands on his shoulders, applies gentle pressure, and he sits with only the miniscule of polite complaints.

“Really, there’s no need to trouble yourself, I can –”

“Nope.” She looks over her shoulder as she gathers up a cloth and a pail, and smiles at him. She kneels by the nearby bubbling stream, and fills the small pail up with water. With the cloth under her arm, she puts her other hand underneath the bucket. It seems to bubble for a moment, and clouded water becomes clear. She places it by his feet, and already muddied knees becomes dirtier as she takes a spot beside him. His other hand settles over his own knee, and he squeezes it tight enough to wear his knuckles white. He begs his legs not to bounce.

He looks shyly over at her, so lost in what she’s doing. The water is pleasantly warm, and she dabs around the edges of the slice. Blood thins, curls in vines down to his fingertips, dripping into the grass. “I’ll need to press it together, and I won’t lie to you, it’s going to hurt,” she says.

“Appreciate the warning,” he says. True to her word, it aches like a son of a bitch, and he clenches his jaw together. He closes his eyes, and he fights to keep his arm stiff and unmoving as she begins to drag her fingers over it. A deep breath, and he opens his eyes once again. The magic is naught unlike rough sandpaper, smoothing him down to healed flesh. It glows underneath her fingertips, her palms.

Her own magic is lilac blue, something sweet and soft, tinged with the dappling green of the anchor. They swirl over each other, and in the setting sun, they brighten her face. Her mouth is slightly open, her tongue between her teeth, a rolling knot of a frown. The light flickers in her eyes, swirling mirrors of the world. A strand of hair escapes its place, comes softly at her cheek. It wavers there, goes no further. There’s obvious care in how she touches him, a sort of love she saves for him and only him. He fears that if he looks too long at her, he may not be able to look away.

“It will be tender, for a while,” she says as she reaches for the bandages. Of the gaping slice, there’s but a thin red line to mark it. “So be careful.” He knows she must also be exhausted from the fight. Still, she makes no complaint as she wraps the wound, pins it together. A hand at her thigh, pushing herself up, and she brushes her hair back. Then, she holds out her hand for him. He gladly takes it, and she helps pull him to his feet. Their hands linger together, and he runs a thumb over her knuckles.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” he tells her. She smiles, reaches up with her free hand, and places it at his cheek.

“How many times have I told you to call me by name, Thom?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


	30. Dahlia (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: Prompt: jazzy noir detectives fen n f!hawke on the black dahlia case :o

Varric rests his hand against the wood of the door, and turns to Fenris. “Bets on who we’re dealing with today? The Revolutionary or the Pretty Birdie?” Fenris, his hands in his pockets, takes a deep sigh. His silvery locks are slicked back, the sides shaved fairly close. One stubborn strand dangles by his temple. His jacket is unbuttoned, and there’s two small stains on the white shirt underneath – helpfully covered in part by his suspenders, and his plain black tie. Varric is less formal, wearing only a plain shirt, the top few unbutton. His trousers are at least presentable, his shoes scuffed.

“It doesn’t matter who,” he says, “as long as they tell us what we need to know.” Varric makes a show of disappointment.

“You’re never any fun,” he says as he pushes open the door and steps inside. This room is always far colder than the others, and a small shiver runs down Fenris’s back as he follows Varric in.

“Hello gentlemen,” she smiles from beside the gurney, a notebook in her hands.

“Hello Birdie,” Varric says with a grin, taking a moment to slap the back of his hand against Fenris’s chest excitedly, “how’s my favorite coroner today?” Hawke chuckles under her breath, shakes her head, dark curls framing her face.

“Don’t let Anders hear you say that. He’ll target you in your next poker game,” she says. Varric waves away her concern while her gaze slips to over to Fenris. “Hello,” she says, smiling in his direction. Her deep red lips are a sharp contrast to her bright blue eyes.

“Hello Marian,” Fenris says, “what do you have for us?” Her pen beats a drumline against her notebook as she begins to read.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, she’s been completely drained of fluids. The cuts on her face are only a part of the visual damage done to her head. The skull isn’t fractured, but her scalp is bruised and there was some bleeding on the right side. It’s likely these blows were the cause of death,” Hawke says.

“Not the –” Varric makes a cutting motion across his gut. Hawke shakes her head again.

“Post-mortem. There are ligature marks on her ankles, wrists and neck, as well as a few superficial cuts across her thighs and breasts. The way in which this was done suggests someone with medical knowledge,” she says.

“You’re saying a doctor did this?” Fenris asks.

“It’s a very real possibility,” Hawke says with a small shrug.

“Anything else interesting?” Varric asks. She flips through her notes briefly before turning back to them.

“Not exactly, but you’ll be able to read every detail in my full report. For now those are the most important things,” she says.

“Any guess on the pose and the way the body’s been cut? Some kind of ritual?” Fenris asks.

“Not everything comes back to superstition,” she says, “Some of it is simply cruelty for the sake of cruelty.”

“The lady has a point. Well, I’m headed back up. Looking forward to reading what I’m sure is a very thrilling report,” Varric says, running a hand through his hair, walking back towards the door.

“Is there something else I could help you with?” Hawke asks Fenris, after they both watch the door close behind him.

“Ah – yes. I wanted to ask if you had any plans for dinner,” Fenris asks, his hands clenched in fists in his pocket. Hawke immediately breaks into a smile.

“And the best place to ask this was in a morgue?” The shell of Fenris’s ears burn scarlet.

“We do not typically see each other anywhere else,” he says.

“A fair point,” Hawke says with a slight chuckle, “I’m off at seven.” His eyebrows shoot upwards, as if he weren’t expecting agreement.

“Then – I will see you at seven,” he says.

“See you then,” she says. He hesitates where he is for a moment, turning to the door, back to her, and to the door again, before finally heading out. He finds Varric in the hallway, leaning against the wall, grinning ear to ear.

“Did you finally ask her?” He asks.

“None of your business,” Fenris says, turning on his heel and walking down the corridor. 


	31. Special (Fenris x NB!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: can I request Fenris or Anders x nonbinary!Hawke?

His fingers massage hard into their own hand. Moving over each and every finger, special attention paid to their joints, their knuckles. “You should take care,” Fenris tells them, “keep your movements static.” They smile, their elbow biting into their knee as Fenris’s thumbs wear deep into the back of their hand. He wears only patience on every line of his face, concentration stitched between his brows as he works at the ache in Hawke’s hand. Once that one is finished, he reaches for the other, begins the same process.

“Some spells have more power with flashier movements, you know,” they say with a sly smile on their face. He looks at them only briefly, the smile flickering on his lips, before he shakes his head. He moves over the first knuckle of their index finger, slowly moves down further.

“I am certain we can make do without the use of those spells,” he says. “Have you attempted the use of herbs to manage the pain?” They shake their head. “I know of a few. I will ask Varric if he can locate them for you.”

“You’re surprisingly knowledgeable about this,” they tell him.

“Mhmm. It is not an uncommon condition. However, from all those I have seen with this, you are the youngest.”

“I have to be special somehow,” they say, the smile on their lips more melancholy than happy. His thumbs press into the knuckle of their ring finger, banishing the pain with his touch. The fire burns down low by them, between them, casting delicate shadows, warm light, over Fenris’s face.

“You already are,” he says, determinately keeping his gaze on their hand, “special.” This time, when their smile grows, it does so out of content fondness.

“Thank you Fenris.”

“No more wildly spinning your staff.”

“Yes, sir.”


	32. Sunshine (Fenris x F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt Given: 4 or 30 from the sensory prompt list, for fenhawke? thank you so much, your writing is amazing (Napping in sunshine or The smell of freshly baked bread)

She stretches out as far as she can, her arms and hands tangling together as her fingertips reach for the clouds. She smiles underneath the warmth of its light, and her hand moves down her other arm as they both fold to cross over the crown of her head. Her bag is resting against her leg, her staff practically camouflaged in the long grass and swaying dandelions. “Hawke. We should keep moving,” Fenris says, behind her, a little ways down the hill. Down the other side, Isabela is rolling Merrill down the hill, their peals of laughter floating in the breeze.

Hawke smiles as she looks over her shoulder at him, turns to face him. She stretches out her arm, her hand, towards him. “Fenris,” she says, “you should come here.” The smile grows wider and she tilts her head slightly, that slip of hair that so often lingers between her brows now hanging precariously near her eye. He stares at her offered hand, his own clenched in fists at his sides, before he takes a deep sigh, his head hanging slightly. She chuckles under her breath as he walks towards her. His hand is stiff in hers, unused to being held. He follows behind her as they walk up the hill, his ears flat, and tips red.

Once at the top, able to spot Isabela and Merrill sprawled out at the bottom, Hawke begins to undo the clasps of his gauntlets. One falls heavy into the grass, and then she reaches for the other. She’s humming some Ferelden lullaby, and he’s not entirely sure she even realizes. She walks around to his back, and struggles carrying his sword enough away. He’s used to taking off the armor of others for them, not the other way around. His belly churns in circles as she begins to undo the clasps of his breastplate. He doesn’t know what to do, and so he just shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

Once she’s finished, his things neatly stacked beside hers, she immediately half-drops to the ground, sprawling out. Hand over her forehead to provide a little shade, still squinting in the light as she looks at him, she taps her hand at the ground beside her. “Fenris,” she says. He bites back the groan, and moves to sit, crossing his legs beneath him. She laughs, at that. “You know I want you to lie down with me.”

“We are still not that far from Sundermount. More walking dead could appear,” he says. She studies him for a moment, and then shrugs her shoulders.

“Your choice.” She laces her hands together over her belly, closes her eyes. The smile still lingers on her face. Blades of grass brush against her face, the side of her where her shirt has raised just slightly. Fenris clears his throat, looks away from Hawke and out over the horizon. Sundermount is a beacon in the distance, splitting the horizon. Occasionally, he can catch snippets of the conversation Merrill and Isabela share. He allows himself to hunch over, propping his elbows up on his knees. His fingers pick at the dandelion in front of him.

He looks back at Hawke, and back again, needing to do a double-take. Her arms are now raised above her head, her mouth slightly open. Her breathing has evened out, and she is very distinctly sleeping. He snorts amusement at first, but the mirth soon dies away as he takes note of the dark circles underneath Hawke’s eyes. It seems she is always up and about, doing something for someone. It’s no wonder she’s tired. Fenris closes his own eyes, feels the ache of exhaustion behind his eyelids. When he opens them again, his gaze naturally falls upon Hawke.

Very carefully, he shifts. He reaches over, pinches that slip of hair between his fingers. Ever gentle, he moves it away from her eyes, back with the rest of it all. His hand lingers at her cheek, and he smiles softly before pulling away.


	33. Piercing (Alistair x Zevran)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a friend

“If you continue to squirm, you will be poked full of holes in places you do not wish to be poked full of holes and I will not apologize,” Zevran tells him, giving the ear he’s holding a slight yank.

“Ow! Maker, I’m sorry I’m a little nervous about getting stabbed,” Alistair says, grumbling half to himself. Zevran rolls his eyes, leans back slightly, and gives Alistair a most unimpressed look. He deftly turns the thin sewing needle between his fingers, his other hand still keeping a tight hold on the earlobe.

“You are the most ridiculous and over-dramatic man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing,” he says. At his words, Alistair breaks into a wide, beaming, toothy grin. They’re sitting on the ground together, Zevran fully in Alistair’s lap, with his legs wrapped around his waist. Alistair keeps him steady with his touch, large hands splayed at the small of Zevran’s back. Zevran leans back forward, hunching over slightly, as the needle begins to carefully near its target.

“And just what do you have to smile about?” He asks, his eyes shifting from Alistair’s ear to meeting his gaze. _They’re boring, just brown_. Zevran doesn’t agree. His eyes are beautiful. Rich, darkly wonderful, coffee swirls at the very edges. Its flow is interrupted by the lighter petals which drape over, bursting out from the iris, as if a sunflower. Drops of liquid gold freckle throughout. He wants to stay in that gaze forever.

“Ha, you _like_ me.” Zevran breathes out sharply, betraying his mirth. The smile curls subtly at the edges of his lips as he shakes his head. Stray strands of sandy blond hair shake loose from Zevran’s messy and loose bun. They slip around pointed ears, curl at his cheeks. Alistair watches them fall, his heart unintentionally skipping a beat, and feels the heat coil in his belly. He presses his hands a little tighter at Zevran’s back. That heat warms his cheeks, scalds the back of his neck, and burns the shell of his ears. It’s impossible for Zevran not to notice.

It’s one of the many things he finds cute about Alistair, he thinks to himself as he leans forward, his eyes closing. Alistair’s lips are a little dry, somewhat chapped, but still tender and sincere. He wears a stitch between his brows, some hopeless expression, as his hands move slowly up Zevran’s back. Zevran runs his tongue along Alistair’s lips, then slips it inside his mouth as he deepens the kiss. Alistair’s arms are beginning to wrap around him, hug him closer. He yelps directly into Zevran’s mouth as the needle pierces through his earlobe. Alistair’s eyes flash open in an instant, as Zevran rocks back with laughter, his hands on Alistair’s shoulders.

“ _Mi amor_ , you should see your face.”

“Yeah, well, that hurt!”

“All good things are made the better by a little pain.”

“No, they are not!”

“No?” Zevran pulls himself in, fingertips digging into Alistair’s shoulders, pressing his body against his. He quickly sweeps Alistair up in the kiss, as his touch travels down one of Alistair’s arms. He lowers his hand, until it’s tight against Zevran’s ass. Then, Zevran rolls his hips forward, and Alistair practically moans. “You see?” He says as he pulls away, the spit line between their lips breaking, “better.” That gentle heat in Alistair’s cheeks is now a roaring inferno, dark underneath his freckles, against warm skin. Zevran’s smile only widens when he sees it.

“That wasn’t fair,” Alistair grumbles hoarsely.

“When have you known me to be fair, hmm?” Zevran reaches beside him, taking the small wet cloth from the water bowl. He pulls out the needle easily, cleans the blood away. To his credit, Alistair does sit patiently for this part and does not fidget. He keeps his hands steady at Zevran’s back, his head slightly tilted to one side and eyes closed. He only opens them when Zevran finishes putting the small gold loop in place. He reaches up, touches a finger against it slightly.

“It will need to be cleaned often. Don’t tug at it! So, it will need to be cleaned often and you will not forget, yes? Promise me,” Zevran says.

“I promise,” Alistair tells him, “I won’t forget.”

“Now,” Zevran says as leans against him, and wraps his arms around Alistair’s neck, “carry me to my tent.” He’s wearing a smug smile, and his legs tighten around Alistair’s waist. Without hesitation, Alistair keeps one arm around Zevran’s waist, and uses the other to push them up off the ground. After, his hand moves to help carry Zevran. Zevran, for his part, pulls himself even closer, putting his chin on his own crossed arm. He closes his eyes, swaying with Alistair’s steady walk, and lets his head rest against his. Alistair’s smile is gentle, and this time, Zevran doesn’t see the blush.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


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